The Small Drama of Short Term Debt
Watermelon woman, touched by dirt,
Drink up the heat as a quiet dream.
I leave you each morning, a thousand
Deaths, as you sleep. Did you wake
In a rush as the buzz or the child
Sounded, or in the calm of seeping
Tea? I drink coffee on a city bus.
The sun pushes the a liquid metal
Measuring temperature and I am cold
from air conditioned, compressed, Condensed
liquefied, and finally evaporated
in a marvel of modern man. You and my
son play in the spray of hose water.
Short distant love pains my weekdays.
How my feet ache from sitting under
A desk too far away from my life. Walk
now and wait in the wake of a morning
without without work. The dream
of spitting watermelon seeds, black
and pure presses down on me, and the pull
of paychecks cuts too much time.